


Chain Of Command

by subtropicalStenella



Series: 5 for 500 [12]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Aayla "Skullcrusher" Secura, F/M, Feelings Realization, Oh No He's Hot, Sparring, Team Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-06 02:40:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12807855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subtropicalStenella/pseuds/subtropicalStenella
Summary: 5/500 prompt for Countessofbiscuit:The Clone Wars: Now that we’ve had Bly mooning over Aayla, how about the other way round? Aayla works with Bly for the first time, a Mature exposition of ‘Ho boy, I’m f*cked.’





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [countessofbiscuit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/countessofbiscuit/gifts).



 Hopefully _this_ will knock her off her pedestal. It wasn't that they coddled her, or undervalued her contribution to the fight. Quite the opposite. It was more that they _worshipped_ her, held her and therefore themselves up to some impossible standard of nobility bordering on reverence.

Which, honestly, she should have expected the moment she met them, when asking their Commander to remove his freshly-painted helmet revealed his bleeding-fresh  _ tattoos _ , the yellow stripes on his handsome face he said meant he was  _ hers.  _ After he’d  _ taken a knee _ .

 

It wasn't a bad thing, necessarily. The resultant tight chain of command meant absolutely flawless combat efficiency--at first glance.

 

But the microseconds’ difference between

 

_ General Secura, sir! Look out! _

and

_ Move your ass! _

 

Could mean her life. 

 

So when she found out--through careful interpretation of coded conversations, behavior and shift/watch rotations--that the troopers had used their downtime and the open sparring floor of the gym to recreate something like nonlethal Huttese pitfighting, she decided she’d join in during the next hyperspace jump.

Everyone is too focused on the current match to stop her walking in--or possibly hoping that if they don't “see” her, she isn't really there and they won't get in trouble--which means she gets a fantastic view from the doorway of her Clone Commander, 5052, catching his opponent (0811? Maybe?) as he bounces off the ropes on a forearm clothesline, and throws him down to the mats in a tangle of limbs.

Her tall, handsome, genetically perfected supersoldier Clone Commander, who apparently preferred to spar barefoot and without the top of his underarmor--his blacks, they just called them 'blacks’--possibly to show off what appears to be  _ more  _ fresh 327th-gold tattoos across the back of his shoulders, something sinuously geometric. 

 

That's… going to make things interesting. Of course, he wouldn't have the sort of intoxicating effect some Humans did on twi’lek, at least, nothing in the extreme. In theory. None of the others had, and they're more-or-less identical. But it's not as if she couldn't handle a bit of full-contact sparring with an attractive Human, she'd never have made it out of the Temple otherwise.

… even if the lines of his hipbones could cut glassteel and he has dimples at the base of his spine and his _ass_ as revealed by the skintight nanoprene that is _also_ hugging the front of him very nicely and she really should stop _ogling_ the poor man and just punch him out.

So when 5052 gets to his feet, pulls the defeated oh-ayte- _ oh- _ one to his feet and yells “Alright, who’s next? Anyone?” with a bright,  _ challenging _ grin she has never seen on  _ any  _ of them--oh hell,  _ more  _ dimples--she calls back with,

 

“Anyone?”

 

The room goes  _ deathly  _ silent but for the sharp rustle of the few dozen men snapping to attention, all of them looking between her and their Commander, who is looking at  _ her _ with something very close to terror. 

 

“General Secura, sir, we--I--”

 

He's never been at a loss for words with her, but then, he's always had something of a script, hasn't he? 

 

“Arranged to occupy your men in their downtime with a constructive and relatively safe outlet for aggressive, competitive energies?” she offers, walking through the crowd. They seamlessly part for her, letting her approach the ring.

“I-I… Yes, sir?” 5052 answers hesitantly. He's still utterly terrified, and now confused, watching her warily. He thinks he's done something wrong, because this isn't regulation. This is likely something  _ banned _ on Kamino: it could damage the 'product.’

“That's what I thought,” she says and looks approvingly up at him from the side of the ring, hands on her hips above her soft shorts. “So, when you said  _ anyone _ , did you mean it?”

“I-I…” He breaks his rigid posture long enough to rake his fingers over his newly razored-short buzzcut and rub at the back of his neck, staring at her. 

 

He did something Bad but she Approves and she's his General, so maybe it's not Bad? He certainly didn't inherit his gene-donor’s inscrutable mask, for all he has the face. She almost doesn't need to read his signature in the Force to know what he's feeling.

 

“Kick his ass, General!”

 

She’s not sure who shouted the encouragement, but 5052’s utterly murderous glare is laser-focused in the crowd and she doesn't bother to hide her delighted laugh. 

Much to her relief, it spreads, turns to whistles, jeering at 5052, and hesitantly, at  _ her _ . Something about Mandalorians. 

 

“Well?” 

“I… Yes, sir. Yes, I did,” he finally answers, growing firmer, more confident in his answer with the repetition, the enthusiastic hollering of his men and her smile. 

“Excellent,” she replies, and steps under the springy ropes, bouncing on her toes. “Rules?”

“Pin to a ten-count or tapout,” someone yells, and she nods. Her lekku sway loosely behind her, swinging idly like cats’ tails. They won't know what the movement means, won’t expect her to skip-step up and drop into a slide, the edge of her foot smashing into his knee.

 

He topples to the laughter of his men, but recovers before she can hook her leg around his and leverage him into a lock. Instead he turns it into a dive, rolls to his feet and lunges at her, his arms wrapping  _ entirely _ around her waist as he takes her down to the mat.

He probably expected his much greater body mass to help keep her down while one of his men starts a count.

He definitely _ didn't _ expect her to roll over, wriggle around under him until her back is to his naked chest--and her ass is slotted perfectly into the hollow of his hips.

 

It's a dirty, sneaky, underhanded tactic that is  _ absolutely _ taking advantage of his rigorous training to treat her with  _ respect _ : accidentally rubbing your adrenaline-induced halfie against your General’s ass is definitely a  _ nonregulation maneuver. _

So he flinches, pops his hips up off hers--and gives her room to squirm farther under him, until his thighs bracket her ribs. 

 

“What--”

 

A hard flex of her spine and stomach lets her kick both her legs up behind him, hook her feet under his armpits and  _ wrench  _ him down hard and fast onto his back.

 

“--the  _ fuck?!” _

 

After that it's a quick roll to flip their positions, get him belly-down on the mat, scoot up--

\--and lock her thighs around his head, sitting on his shoulders with her hands braced on the mat behind her and her legs crossed at the ankles.

She can barely hear him, between the disbelieving, riotously cheering and laughing troops, and the way his face is mashed between her and the mat, but it sounded like he attempted to say, “Are you half  _ sleen?! _ ”

His offended indignation is utterly charming and proves there's a  _ person _ in there, not just a series of memorized holosims and regulations. 

 

“Is that a forfeit, Commander?” she asks mildly, grinning when that only makes the troops,  _ her  _ troops, get louder. Someone has a datapad camera pointed at her.

“ _ No! _ ” he snaps, and starts to push up on his hands. He’s more than strong enough to lift her bodyweight.

She lets him get them a foot or so up before she sings, “Are you  _ suuuure?” _

 

And flexes her legs with every ounce of strength she can muster, the thick, sleek muscle of her thighs standing out as she  _ squeezes _ his head like a ripe meiloorun.

He drops flat almost immediately, frantically slapping the mat.

She lets him go, lifts herself off his back so he can scoot out, but he simply rolls over, apparently oblivious to the compromising position. Best not to draw attention to it then.

 

“Best two out of three, Commander?” she asks, sitting back down on his upper chest with a bounce that makes him  _ wheeze _ and grab at her ankles.

“It's Bly,” he rasps.

 

It's… what?

 

“Aren’t you supposed to introduce yourself _before_ you end up face-deep in a lady's unmentionables?” someone yells, and she looks up as a hand is slapped over the speaker’s face, shortly before a furiously blushing 5052--Bly, his name is _Bly--_ hastily shoves her off his chest.

 

“Ignore him, Twenty-Two thinks he's a catch.”

“Who says he isn't?” she says, and watches 0022’s face  _ light up _ . 

 

He's not the only one. She's never seen them this relaxed around her, and it's  _ wonderful _ .

 

She just very badly needs to not think about the way Bly’s strong, hard body had felt pressed up against her back and everything will be  _ fine.  _ Even if she was very, very wrong about him not having a biochemical effect on her. Her skin is all but  _humming_ with secondhand adrenaline.

  
“Who’s next?”


	2. Epilogue

 The next clip breaks the intranet. Really. There was a .02 second lag in all incoming data transfer on Felucia for about an hour after the clip went live.

A clone with three thin green horizontal lines across his nose and cheeks, with a medic insignia on his shoulder, speaking directly into the cam.

 

_ So we’ve been getting a lot of flak from you assholes, calling our CC a whiner, bunch of other shit because he tapped out in that sparring session last cycle, fearing for his fuckdamn life. _

 

A female voice laughs behind him, and the camera pans over to another clone, this one with gold streaks like thumb-smears of paint on his cheekbones and his arms crossed over his chest

 

_ This is ridiculous.  _

 

Green Stripes holds up a pink-and-gold melon the size of his head. 

 

_ We're gonna show you why he was completely justified. _

 

He tosses the melon back over his shoulder, turning the camera so the audience can see a curvaceous, pale blue female Twi'lek catch it easily. She's in a cropped, longsleeved shirt and tight letheris pants that hang off her hipbones as she settles down to the deck of whatever cruiser they're on, plunks the melon between her legs.

A moment to brace herself up on her hands, cross her legs at the ankles, and then the thick ropes of muscle in her thighs stand out as she takes a deep breath and  _ squeezes _ down, gritting her teeth.

There's a thick, wet  _ crunch _ as the fruit splits unevenly down the middle and the surrounding mob of soldiers bursts out into cheering as she sits down and rips the sundered melon apart easily with her fingers. 

 

_ Will that suffice then? _ she asks, still laughing

 

The camera turns back to a very satisfied Green Stripes, and another clone leaning over his shoulder, this one's long forelock falling roguishly into his face.

 

_ Now some of you might be thinking “Pff, I could do that!” So we're going to up the ante with a little proper application of **Force**. _

 

He holds up a second melon in one hand, and… that's the severed durasteel head of an SBD, in the other.

Item A is stuffed into Item B, and the combination is held out to the Twi'lek, who cracks up. 

 

_ Catch, no! I couldn't, that's _ \--

 

She's cut off by a chorus of pleading and absolutely piteous whining.

 

_ \--completely inappropriate _ ,

 

The CC attempts to cut in but is drowned out by boos and demands to  _ lighten up, buir! _ Until the Twi'lek laughs, takes the melon-stuffed droid head and sits back down on the deck as the CC throws his hands up in disgust.

Another deep breath as she settles herself, centers herself, breathing slowly and deeply as her eyes flutter closed. 

 

Her legs tense again and metal creaks ominously above the heavy silence of the watching soldiers. 

 

Creaking turns to a low, whining groan as her legs start to shake with effort.

 

The air around her goes slightly blurry, as though obscured by invisibly-thin smoke and then

 

**_crrrrRRRACKKK_ **

 

The durasteel droid head  _ crumples  _ under the pressure in an explosion of fruit pulp that splatters the howling riot of the 327th Star Corps in orange goop seconds before they haul their General off the ground and up onto their shoulders.

  
This is later considered Ground Zero for the inter-Division Jedi Mastery One-Upmanship competition that went on for the next two months, and reappeared every year about the same time for the duration of the Clone Wars.


End file.
